


Gebtu

by Trell (orphan_account)



Series: Ravens and Dragons [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Asexual Castiel, Asexual Character, Dragons, Fantastic Racism, Friendship/Love, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Ravens and Dragons, Royalty, Unrequited Love, Wings, very mild ematophobia cw (not graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Trell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ahead of them, the sound of a hundred men slamming their gauntlets against shields in unison rings out, and a deep drumbeat starts up from behind the assembled men.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A royal welcome for their returning king, and perhaps a warning for the strange delegation he brings with him. Drums have always been associated with marching men of war for the humans, after all; Castiel remembers from the historical texts of his own people that in their ancient conflicts the sound would ring through the ravens' mountains, warning of the coming bloodshed.</i>
</p><p><a href="http://askravensanddragons.tumblr.com/">Ravens and Dragons AU.</a> Dean and Castiel's entourages arrive at the human capitol of Gebtu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gebtu

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to [virdant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant)!

They are past the northern border of the human lands, now, and nearing the nation's capital city.

Castiel knows this because Dean has told him, but also because the heat has changed, here. The land they cross is parched, utterly arid in the daytime—all scrubland and sand, treeless. The nights are astonishingly cold, for such a warm place, and Castiel finds himself having to wrap himself in furs while the moon hangs in the sky, only to disrobe back to the lightest of clothes come morning.

He is uncomfortable in such a barren place—no tree cover, no mountains—for all that he has flown through the open sky. Balthazar seems to concur, watches the nighttime like he expects phantoms to come clawing at them in the dark.

Castiel knows better, if only because the spirits that haunt him are summoned from their slumber only at the summer equinox.

In the north, winter is approaching, bringing with it blizzards and ice. Their villages will be hidden, by now, buried in white; game scarce, every clan depending as much on its stores as on its hunters.

Here another summer is just beginning, rising hot and florid from the earth, the scent of the grasses heavy on the wind. If Castiel slips into meditation, probes with the senses he possesses that go beyond the physical, he can feel the beetles and dry-land toads emerging from their slumber after nightfall.

Life here is awakening, even while the north slips into slumber.

Dean grows increasingly more comfortable as they ride fast across the grasslands, their speed greater now than it was on the craggy northern roads. Castiel only grows more apprehensive, wary of this empty, soulless place, fearing what they may find when they reach the southern capital.

Gebtu approaches, and with it the greatest test Castiel is sure to ever face.

He feels, sometimes, as though he is riding to his death; as though something lies at the end of this journey that he must circumnavigate, or perish.

An interesting conundrum, that: avoid this duty and condemn his people, or go and likely condemn himself. Not a dilemma, in truth—for the ravens Castiel is willing to do whatever it takes, willing to take on any peril—but it sets his stomach churning, anyway.

Balthazar does his best to distract him and raise his spirits, but Castiel cannot find mirth within himself. He smiles listlessly at him—at Dean, too—and feels strangely as though he is being spread thin, here where there is nothing to hide him from the vastness of the sky.

He is painted on, the world a canvas, and the fate that awaits him there is not one he can escape.

They ride on, their column tramping mercilessly over the terrain, and Castiel bends his head and thinks wistfully of home.

* * *

The night before they reach Gebtu they camp at the desert's edge, tents set up on the flat slabs of red stone that cascade down from the grasslands into the dunes below. It is that same night that the sky is lit with fire.

There is no moon—the black blankets the landscape absolutely, leaves them only pinprick starlight and the campfires around which they huddle. Beside Castiel Dean is speaking, telling him stories of how he and Sammy used to go out here as children, their young dragons in tow, to spend nights away from the city; how they'd pile on the rocks, still warm from the day's relentless sunlight, and pick out constellations.

It is only by chance that Dean points up then, indicating a trio of stars bright enough to see despite their proximity to the campfire.

The falling star scores across the sky above them, white—red and orange blooming 'round its edges—and they freeze. Watch it plummet, open-mouthed.

It passes out of sight beyond a ridge, and then there is a distant boom and a tremor running through the ground to meet them. "Whoa," Sam says, from the other side of the fire. Jo, beside him, echoes the word.

"Is that normal?" Castiel breathes, disbelieving. He does not know what to make of this: there is no record of anything like this happening in the northlands, and it is not something he has ever seen.

"No," Dean says, closer to him than he'd realized from how they craned together to see it pass. "I've never seen anything like that." All of them fall silent, awed; the clamor of the camp is halted. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, as though they wait for something more. Another falling star, perhaps, or another tremor.

"It's like the story," Jo says into the silence, her voice quiet, like she's (like all the rest of them) afraid any sound might send the entirety of the sky's host crashing down upon them.

"It's just a story," Dean says, harshly.

"It's a _prophecy_ ," Sam says. His tone is pointed, like Dean's being purposely obtuse.

"What prophecy?" Castiel is immediately curious.

"It's _nothing,_ " Dean tells him, firmly, and glares at Sam and Jo. "Shut up, the both of you. It's superstition, and I don't wanna hear it."

"But Dean," the two say, in unison. It's met with, "Not another word!" and then Dean is standing, stamping away from the fire and to the camp's edge.

Castiel casts a questioning look at Sam and Jo, who just shake their heads, and rises to follow.

He catches up to Dean on the edge of the rock slab their camp covers, finds him looking towards where the star must have struck earth on the far side of the ridge. There is a breeze here, farther from the rock face, and Castiel unfolds his wings, lets the air run through his pinions.

He wonders if he could see where the star landed, if he flew.

Dean says, after a while, without turning around to face him, "Don't worry about what they said, all right? It's just some damn story about a rock from the sky signifying—whatever. Don't worry about it."

"Dean," Castiel says, dryly. "Telling me that there is no need for concern only informs me that there is."

"Right," Dean snorts, and glances over his shoulder. "Suffice it to say I think it's better not to know."

Castiel tries to search his expression, but finds it too shrouded this far from the fire. "Truth tends to serve better than ignorance," he murmurs. Steps closer, reaching out to touch Dean's hand as he would one of his own people, a gesture of go-ahead, of prompting speech.

Dean shivers at the contact, and only says, "Cas, trust me, it's better if you didn't know. Can you do that? Trust me about this, like I trusted you to lead me blind out of the cave of the soul-eater?"

Castiel's breath catches at that, because he'd never spared a thought for what it must have taken for Dean to accept his word, then, when he'd been unable to see and lost in the labyrinth under the mountain.

Chilled, he wonders what can be so terrible that Dean compares it to the experience, but aloud he says, "Very well," and lets the matter drop. Dean has entrusted him with his life already; surely Castiel can entrust him with his own ignorance.

Dean gives him a crooked smile, and looks back out over the desert.

Castiel looks with him.

* * *

The next day they ride across the sand and down, down amidst the dunes; make their way around yawning desert chasms, heading in a direction Castiel can hardly guess at. There are no peaks to orient himself, here, only the angle of the sun—already pounding down, oppressive—and Dean ahead of him to guide him.

He is startled utterly when they crest a ridge and find a verdant valley spilled below them, the green-blue ribbon of a river in its deepest crevice, a massive walled city located inland, towards where the lush growth peters back out into sandy desert.

"Home," Dean says, grinning, and then he's snapping his reins and riding down the sloping side of the ridge, towards the valley and the city. Castiel does the same, eyes trained on the distant city, on the clustered palm trees and fields that trace the valley up to the rockier slopes where the city sits.

The column follows behind them, rather more steadily; eventually, when Dean reaches an actual road—more dirt and rock than sand, now—they follow the switchbacks downward.

The ride through the fields is fascinating, for Castiel has never seen agriculture of this sort, with everything grown wet on the banks of such a river. Irrigation channels run across the road at regular intervals, covered by stone bridges; further on, the road turns into cobble, melds into flat slabs of stone that ring with their horses' hoofbeats.

They ride slower, now, and Castiel thinks Dean sets a pace more suited to a procession than travel because the people working in the fields are watching. Dean beckons for him to ride directly at his side, and Castiel does not think that an idle gesture, either: it tells anyone who watches that they ride together, not as follower and leader, and certainly not as an enemy under guard.

Five miles from the city and they stop so that Jo and Sam (riding just behind them, now) may bring forth and unfurl twin red-and-gold banners, the colors of the royal house. A dragon with open wings and a curled tail adorns it at the centre; _'hic sunt draconis'_ is printed in a flourish underneath.

Castiel nods for Samandriel and another raven to unfurl banners of their own—prepared for the occasion, for ravens have never bothered with such displays—watches as blue and silver cloth unrolls to reveal a sigil of wings. There are no words printed underneath: he had not thought it suitable, to diminish who they were further by trying to come up with a summation in the human tongue.

As they continue on, the banners snapping in the wind behind them, Castiel looks sideways at Dean and says, low enough so that only he can hear, "Your people are very eager to see us."

He is not exaggerating: the closer to the city they approach, the road winding between fields and those few buildings that stand amidst them, the more people gravitate towards the road to watch them. Castiel suspects that once they enter the city—and, oh, it is a city, nothing like the villages of the north, so vast that in his mind it almost seems a mountain—there will be all the more, people flocking to watch them from all sides.

"No," Dean mumbles back, leaning sideways for Castiel to hear, "they're eager to see _you_ , Cas. And not just you. All of you. Your people haven't been seen here for hundreds of years, remember? The rare strange straggler aside."

"And will we be treated as the latest attraction as the palace, as well?" Castiel asks. He does not mean it to come out as bitter as it sounds, but he cannot help his tone, what with the warnings he's been given.

"Probably," Dean says, honest, and his smile when he glances towards Castiel is apologetic. "You know how it is, with these things. Everything's gonna be a fight to get 'em to listen before you can even do any talking."

Castiel makes an affirmative noise and keeps his eyes straight ahead, because the walls of the city are fast-approaching up ahead.

The gates in the high wall are massive, bordered by tall watchtowers; more towers of the same form appear intermittently along the wall in both directions, all the way up the sides of the valley and presumably around the sides and back of the city, where it touches the desert.

And in between the towers, atop the walls—

—atop the walls—

—he thinks them statues, at first; more decorative symbols, like the banners, until one of them (so small, at this distance, hundreds of feet above) moves, unfolds great sharp-edged wings, and Castiel realizes that what he sees are _dragons_.

"Watch," Dean says, under his breath, and Castiel does, all else forgotten, neck craned back to see.

From the wall, like a flock of birds leaping from a building's edge, but with far more gravity—not like birds at all, Castiel decides, but like gargoyles detaching themselves from the awning they were built on and taking to the air—dozens of dragons drop, and flare their wings to glide.

They move like things not meant to be, not quite like reptiles and not quite like birds; flash red and gold and green and black and blue in the sun as they soar down over the city's sand-tone walls and towards them. For a terrifying moment, it seems as though they might strike the ground, or go so low as to plow right through their approaching column; but then they stop their descent half-way down and fly past overhead, wingbeats deafening in the air.

He twists to follow their path with his gaze, watches as they spin gloriously in the sky and fly back towards the city wall, a carefully-coordinated display of raw bestial power.

Castiel would be stopped in his tracks if the mare under him weren't rather more focused on the task at hand than he. As it is, he gapes openly, so taken in by the display that he pays no attention to the ranks of guards in ceremonial garb that await them at the gate.

Beside him, Dean chuckles—watching his reaction with prideful glee, Castiel realizes. He drags his gaze back down, speechless, and can only shake his head in awe.

Ahead of them, the sound of a hundred men slamming their gauntlets against shields in unison rings out, and a deep drumbeat starts up from behind the assembled men.

A royal welcome for their returning king, and perhaps a warning for the strange delegation he brings with him. Drums have always been associated with marching men of war for the humans, after all; Castiel remembers from the historical texts of his own people that in their ancient conflicts the sound would ring through the ravens' mountains, warning of the coming bloodshed.

The ravens had never had standing armies, not even then. What the sound had mostly done was give them time to evacuate their young and flightless, and those who were not trained to fight.

Ravens had still died by the hundreds, after, and so the sound rings ominous in Castiel's ears.

He pushes thoughts of bloodstained snow—the battles had been described vividly in the older tomes, despite the cumbersome old language—out of his mind, and focuses on what is before him now. Sandstone, cast into shadow by the wall's height, and the armed men at the gate marching to both sides so that the king's column may pass.

 _Parting the sea._ Castiel does not let his eyes train on the spears the guardsmen hold. These men are not the enemy: no matter their history, he is here now to make allies, not to herald war.

They stop just short of the gate, the horses snorting uneasily as they halt, the guardsmen silent around them, and Dean makes a gesture to wait.

The great gates are pulled laboriously open, and then Gebtu is bare before them.

* * *

The ride through the city is even more crowded than Castiel expects. The buildings rise high around them, even on these lower tiers of its insides, and greenery clings to walls and bridges that vault over the wide road that runs towards the palace at the heart of the city.

People swarm the sides of the road and flock to windows, and strings of colorful banners are strung above them between the awnings. The level of noise is incredible: everyone who has come to watch is speaking and shouting, voices overlapping, and the guardsmen that line the road to keep the people back blare trumpets.

Castiel wonders at the absurdity of announcing the king's arrival when it's clear the city is already all too aware.

Beside him, Dean smiles blindingly and waves at the crowds, and Castiel thinks that his smile isn't that of a politician at all, but a genuine one: pride in his city, in the people he sees, and earnest delight at such a reception, however much he may complain of being king.

Castiel merely looks out at the faces that stare unabashedly (and often with distaste, falling upon the ravens) as they pass—no wings jostling between bodies here, not anywhere—and tries not to forget how to breathe, because he's never been afraid of being before others but he's never felt so _observed._

He's never seen so many people gathered in one place before in his life, even at their fire festivals and equinox celebrations, and he's certainly never been studied by so many with the kind of morbid fascination one gives a monstrosity.

It occurs to him then that all the warnings he's been given have been incomplete. These people, these common people, bear more feelings towards those like him than just disdain: there is something darker running through them, old hatreds warmed over, subdued violence thrumming underneath the false celebratory air.

 _Blood on the snow,_ Castiel thinks, tinged with hysteria, and wraps the reins of his mare tighter 'round his hand. _Blood on the snow, and we're just on display, like prisoners before a hanging._

He bites at the inside of his cheek and tastes blood, almost poetically appropriate. It's sour and metallic in his mouth, only intensifying the reek that becomes apparent as they move inward through the city.

There are so many here that he cannot imagine how closely they must be forced to live, is struck again and again with nauseating waves of mingled smell. Smoke; the echo of a bakery; horse shit; garbage; human, human, _human,_ the scent of hundreds of people living in spaces meant for dozens, existences and excretions all overlapping.

Castiel swallows, and wills himself not to feel so abruptly ill; steels his shoulders, maintains the most regal posture he can summon.

He will ride through this city as someone deserving of respect, even if the people that see him are loath to give it.

* * *

An interminable amount of time later they reach the palace, and the crowds that await them there are far more well-dressed and coordinated, arranged in the entry courtyards in careful rows: armed men and women still standing guard before them but far more of the wealthily-clad nobility lined up towards the front.

Dean stops the procession once the entirety of the column has ridden through the palace's ornate entryway, and Castiel watches, dazed, as a man dressed all in red walks towards them from the golden gates of the inner palace with a delegation of his own.

A speech is made; a stilted welcome for the ravens and an overwrought one for Dean—Castiel gathers during it that the man in red is Regent, left behind to govern in the absence of the princes, as Castiel left Rachel. The rest of it he hardly hears: he feels disembodied as they pass from the deafening noise of the city streets and into the strangely, formally silent palace grounds.

The drums are still beating in the background, distant, and he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, is still trying to calm the churning in his gut.

He is vehemently, utterly thankful that he is not required to speak beyond a formal thanks for the welcome given. He tightens his mare's reins around his hand until they bite into his palm while he speaks, his voice pitched perfectly to carry to even those farthest from the middle of the courtyard.

And then, abruptly, they're dismounting and handing the horses off to identically-clad servants, and the Regent is leading them into the tall indoor halls—talking about nothing important at all, describing in unnecessary detail the origin of the architecture—and Dean's hand is on Castiel's shoulder, his lips next to Castiel's ear. "That was good," he mutters, "what you said out there."

"Was it?" Castiel doesn't remember a single word that came out of his mouth.

"Yeah. You're doin' great." And, his hand squeezing Castiel's shoulder, his tone going sympathetic, like he gets exactly how Castiel feels, "You should all get a chance to rest for a bit before the feast."

"Thank you," Castiel says, hears the relief plain in his own voice. He just barely stops himself from saying, _Thank the spirits._

He still feels ill, but as the palace doors slam shut behind them—tomb-like, he doesn't dare think—he focuses on the warmth of Dean's hand, and tries to convince himself that this alliance they hope to forge will be a success.

* * *

"This isn't gonna work," Dean is saying.

He's pacing frantically back and forth across the rug in the center of Sam's chambers while Sam sits at his desk and watches, fingers drumming against the tabletop in an echo of Dean's frantic energy. "It has to work," Sam says, because, really, what else is there?

"It's not _going to._ " Dean is clenching and unclenching his fists as another outlet to his frustrations, the pounding of his footsteps only slightly muffled by the rug. "Shit, Sammy, you saw them out there—the way they all acted—if I didn't know better I'd say there were people out there who lost their mothers and fathers in the old wars, not, not, great-great-greats, or whatever the fuck."

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out a harsh sigh. "Dean, you knew this was how it was gonna be," he reasons, though he scowls in sympathy. "There's people in this city that scrawl profanities about the beast-races on the walls. Hell, most of the inns here won't even allow them to stay, not to mention the murder rate—"

" _The murder rate,_ " Dean rages, "and those inns, damn them, I put out a mandate—"

"—two days after they sat you on the throne, yes," Sam says, exasperated. He opens his mouth to say more, but what comes out is, "And will you _sit down_ , Dean! You're making me nervous."

"I should be out there making them nervous," Dean growls, and Sam isn't sure if he means the innkeeps or the nobles or the people of Gebtu at large. Dean doesn't sit. "Did you hear some of the things they yelled as we passed? Shit, I hope Cas didn't hear, or didn't know what they meant—"

Small graces if Castiel doesn't yet know that facet of their language, Sam thinks, though he fears the Ravenlord is a terribly quick learner. "Yes, I heard them," he says. "Dean, you can't expect the people to accept an alliance with a people they hate in a day."

"Why the hell not, Sam? And fuck the superstitions with that _damn_ falling star!" Dean finally stops his pacing, grabs the back of the chair across from Sam and leans forward, glaring. Sam hasn't seen him this riled up in weeks—not since before they left for the north. "Why the hell can't I expect the people in this damned city to treat Cas and all the ravens—all the other beast races—the same way they do each other? It's fucking common decency."

Sam prudently neglects to point out that the way the people of the city treat each other mostly involves lying, cheating, stealing, stabbing, and all manner of petty crimes and general nastiness. Instead he says, "Because while people as individuals might be passably decent, people all _together_ are a monster."

"Fucking _bullshit,_ " Dean concludes, eloquently, and steps around to collapse into the other chair.

Sam silently agrees, and worries about Dean's ability to navigate this political motion even as fondness wells inside him for the single-mindedness with which Dean assumes everyone capable of accepting others as easily as he does.

Dean scrubs his hands over his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, and says, "Shit, Sam, think about the feast. The lords and everyone are gonna sit there like I've brought, I don't know, _dogs_ to the table, and these are the people I'm trying to convince of an alliance."

Quietly—needlessly—Sam says, "If you don't, chances are this time next year there's not going to be anyone left to convince."

"Oh, believe-you-me, I know," Dean says, and slumps against the table, burying his face in his arms. "I gotta go talk to Cas. I gotta go prepare him for how they're gonna act, so he doesn't end up killing the first one that talks to him like he's a child."

Sam shudders at the thought of Castiel well and truly angry. He's seen it exactly once: he's not thrilled at the prospect of seeing it again.

When something breaks past Castiel's reserved exterior, it breaks through with a vengeance: like all this emotions he keeps hidden under a set expression have been building up pressure and come out in one great outpour of cold rage.

The one time Sam saw it happen, Castiel drove a stake through the instigator's heart.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Uh, yeah. You should talk to him. Make up for not talking to him nearly enough on the way here, don'tcha think?"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean grunts, and hauls himself back to his feet. He's still in his riding gear. (Sam's just changed, though he hasn't had time to bathe, either, and the grit of the day's ride over the dunes still itches on his skin. "I'm gonna go, I'm gonna—"

"Yes, Dean," Sam says, and watches as his older brother runs a hand over his mouth, his go-to gesture of worry, and hurry out of the room with the same anxious energy as he paced.

Deep down, he echoes Dean's sentiment. _This isn't going to work._

* * *

Balthazar kindly holds Castiel's hair and jewelry out of the way while he retches, and even manages to keep the commentary to a minimum. "Cassie, Cassie," he's saying, "it's okay—you've dealt with worse than this. We talked about this. You can do this."

"Oh," Castiel groans, letting Balthazar help him up from where he's on his knees, bent over the chamberpot, "oh, no. The ice giants were not worse than this."

Balthazar leads him over to the open window and leaves him to lean against the sill before walking over the door of the chamber Castiel's been given and calling for a servant. A girl peeks in and wordlessly deals with the remains of what Castiel ate this morning, stepping back out with just the click of the door behind her.

"The ice giants tried to _cook us,_ " Balthazar reminds him, as she leaves. "They thought we were _food_. They were also, if you'll recall," he crosses the room to stand back in front of Castiel, eyebrow raised in skepticism, "twenty feet tall and made of rock."

"It wasn't rock," Castiel protests, weakly. At least he no longer feels ill. "It was just their exterior—they came from the mountains themselves, they are the 'children of the stone'—"

"The point is," Balthazar cuts him off, "is that you managed to negotiate a ceasefire with a bunch of _walking mountains_ that wanted to have you for dinner."

"There were less of them," Castiel snaps. He still feels terribly off-kilter, and he hates it. He is better than this, should be better than this: he has handled worse situations, has been in more horrible places.

Maybe.

Balthazar snorts. "Since when do you suffer stage fright?" he asks, his eastern accent smoothing over the syllables.

"Not _stage fright,_ " Castiel snarls at him, gripping the windowsill at his back. "People that look like they want to riot just because we dared to ride into their city."

"We rode in at their king's side. They'll have to acquiesce," Balthazar says.

"They looked at us like we were vermin!"

"Better than looking at us like food."

"Who's looking at you like food?" This last comes from the door. Neither Castiel nor Balthazar, in their arguing, had noticed it opening once more.

Dean's leaning inside, giving a forced smile. "Sorry," he says, "you didn't answer when I knocked."

"Most people," Balthazar says, in the acrid tones of one explaining something to a simpleton, "take that to mean that the occupants are busy."

"Balthazar," Castiel says, suddenly feeling very tired indeed, and, "Come in, Dean."

Dean steps inside; Balthazar shoots Castiel a questioning look— _do you need me to stay?_ —but shrugs and exits with a swirl of his robe when Castiel shakes his head. The door closes a little too loudly behind him.

Castiel watches as Dean makes a face at the closed door, and then faces Castiel and looks at his feet and says, "Shit, Cas, I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would be this bad. I didn't think—"

"Just so," Castiel says, exhaustedly. The words must sting, because Dean's head snaps up immediately.

"We knew this was going to be bad," Dean says, defensively. "I told you—Sam and Jo told you. Benny told you."

"Yes," Castiel says, "yes," and then he's sliding down the wall from the windowsill with a sigh, sitting down on the floor because he feels a little like he might fall if he doesn't. He finds it in himself to say, truthfully, "This is not your fault, Dean."

"It's my fault because I can't _fix it,_ " Dean says, and Castiel gets the impression that this is something that drives Dean mad on a regular basis, not being able to just give the word and have the world remold itself to suit him. He wonders if it's a result of being royalty, or if that's just how Dean is, always trying to fix what's broken by sheer force of will.

Castiel shakes his head, regretting the motion a little when it makes him feel faintly lightheaded, and says, bluntly, "Dean, tell me what I need to know before this feast begins. I cannot go in blind. Not again."

Dean winces, and comes, to Castiel's surprise, to sit cross-legged on the floor across from him, back against the edge of the fourposter bed that takes up most of the space in the room. "Okay," he says, "okay."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, though, letting his head fall back against the post at his back, and Castiel prompts, "Dean?"

"Okay," Dean says again, and opens his eyes, sits at a sort of attention, his hands worrying at the laces of one of his boots. "There's gonna be the main table, with all of your entourage and all the lords that can be here tonight—we're still waiting on the last few missives to let us know who'll be arriving," a grimace at the last-minute arrangements, "and there'll be lesser nobles and various family that travel with the lords."

Most houses, Castiel supposes, aren't so bereft of living family members as the Winchesters. He wonders anew at the lack, and makes an encouraging noise for Dean to go on. "Other people," Dean says, "more noblemen, rich merchants, people like that—are going to be at the lower tiers of tables."

Dean is looking at where he's tugging his bootlace out of one of its holes, and Castiel reaches impulsively out to grab his hand and stop the frantic fiddling.

It stops him, and makes Dean meet his eyes, at which point Castiel takes a breath, holds his gaze, and says—in the most commanding tone he can muster—"Very well. Now tell me what you are going to do, and how they're going to _act._ "

Dean swallows, and does.

* * *

The minute Dean finishes talking to Cas and steps in the hallway, he pushes all of his plans (all his coming problems), all of the lords (all of the major _pains in his ass_ ) and all that has to do with the war out of his mind, relaces his boot, and sets off at a jog for the side of the castle that faces the desert.

He's belatedly glad he hasn't changed out of his riding clothes, then, because it means no one tries to stop him. In his official gold-and-maroon he'd be halted at least a dozen times to ask this or that in preparation for tonight's feast; as it is, dressed in a stained sleeveless tunic and riding pants tucked into old cavalry boots going up to the knee, he manages to get to his destination unnoticed.

The place that has him running is, of course, the dragon kennels. He hasn't seen Impala in two months, which is crazy: before now they'd never spent more than a few days apart.

The kennels are located in the side of the palace that runs right up against the outer wall. There the wall opens over the desert, allowing dragonriders to exit with ease—without necessarily having to fly over the city—and giving the dragons room to breathe when they're left to their own devices.

Impala's kennel is at the very top, located a short stroll from Dean's own chambers, so that it would normally take him mere minutes to get there in the mornings. He curses the high storey now, though, breathing hard as he takes the steps that lead to the upper floor two at a time.

He makes it in record time, anyway, and then he's fumbling the keyring with the ornate key to the kennel into the door, and practically leaping inside.

It's funny, really, that they call such vast semi-enclosures kennels. Kennels are little things, for dogs, without much room; what Impala has . . .

What Impala has is the size of a minor hold's throne room, multiple storeys high to accommodate her size and wingspan and give her the space necessary to stretch and walk around; and the chain that keeps her bound to the palace in Dean's absence is long enough so that she can fly out of the open side and take up a place on the ledges that jut out of the city wall for the express use of the dragons.

She's out there now, as Dean closes the door quietly behind him and—more slowly, now—creeps towards the edge of the enclosure, his boots crunching over hay and the occasional bone. Once he's standing at the very edge, hand on a post that juts out of the floor precisely so that riders needn't stand here without anything to grab hold of, he calls, softly, "Baby!"

Below him, resting on a wide ledge, a sleek black monster with a fifty-foot wingspan and breath that can melt steel raises her head in response to the name.

Her neck arches, head rising up to his level—her head alone is easily larger than he is—and tilts. A gold-flecked red eye the size of his hand beholds him, almost petulantly (he's been gone so long) and then she's nudging him backwards with her nose, making him stumble and laugh.

"Easy, easy, baby," he croons, and runs his hands over her nostrils and the bridge of her nose. "Hey," he says, when she keeps nudging him back into the enclosure, "stop that, I'm back, we can go _flying._ "

And the dragon stops at that, because they're intelligent creatures—intelligent enough to recognize words—and withdraws, rumbling low and insistent. The sound reverberates in Dean's stomach, makes him grin.

Back for five minutes and he's already got a dragon growling at him in impatience.

"All right, all right," he assures her, "I'm coming," and then he's grasping the ladder that runs down from the enclosure to the ledge and swinging over the edge, climbing quickly down to where she lays.

She still extends a paw for him to clamber up to her shoulder and then to her ridged back when he comes close, for all her annoyance. Dean smiles and shimmies his way up the scaled limb and to where he can cling to the back ridges (no time for a saddle, he's decided) at the base of her neck.

The collar that holds her to her perch is locked there, and Dean says, "Bet you're tired of this thing, huh, baby?" as he inserts the same key used for the door into the lock, and allows the collar to fall with a loud clang to the ledge.

And then he's holding on for dear life, because he's not stupid and he _knows his dragon_ , damn it.

Her massive wings are unfolded and beating the minute the collar is gone; a slow rise, getting her sleek form into the air before she launches, and then—

—and then they're plummeting downward, off the ledge. A whoop tears out of Dean as they plunge, wind tearing at his clothes, making his eyes water; he's missed _this,_ god, he's missed Impala and he's missed this, missed the initial fall and then the rush of arcing up into the sky.

As Impala pulls upward, Dean thinks, enviously, that Cas can do this at any time, all on his own; but then they're stabilized, circling high above the palace spires, and all of his brain goes on automatic, drives out the need to _think_ and just focuses on feeling how they need to move.

He presses the palm of one hand to Impala's neck and hollers, "Come on, girl, into the desert!" and thinks hard of the desert's image, willing her to go; and she does, lets out a deafening roar that makes the air shake and goes.

* * *

Jo is pressing her palm against the flat of her blade and sighting down it at the practice dummy before her when Sam calls to her from across the practice yard. "Jo!"

She lowers the blade, and turns. This courtyard is a smaller one—large enough for maybe five swordsmen to practice on straw targets at once, and just wide enough for one to learn to fire a bow at mid-range. Sam's hurrying out of the doors on the other side, between columns lush with ivy and past two big planters with dry-climate plants.

"Yes?" she says, and sheathes her sword. She doesn't really need the practice, today, and straw dummies never helped anyone with anything but balance and forms, anyway; she'd only gone out in an attempt to work some of the nervous tension out of her body.

Dean, she thinks, isn't the only one wound up by the experience of riding with the ravens through the city. If she never has to see their guests treated like that ever again—see any beast race get treated like that ever again—it'll be too soon.

It makes her want to stomp up the steps to mom's throne room and demand she _do something about it_ —except Jo isn't ten anymore, she's twenty-five the head of the kingsguard. She can't go running to her mother about all the world's wrongs, not anymore.

She stopped running to her mother about anything at all when she was ten, but Ellen usually managed to fix whatever was wrong in her world after that, anyway.

"We gotta talk," Sam says, informatively, and stops to press his hands against his back and arch backward, audibly popping his spine. "Ugh, Jo, we gotta make Dean listen. Or tell Cas. Or make Dean tell Cas, except that option would probably require a team of oxen to drag him."

"You mean about the shooting star," Jo says, and Sam nods.

She's not sure she believes what it means, herself; she's never really been superstitious. Still, Sam seems to think the prophecy associated with it important, and between the two of them he's the one that's spent the last fifteen years locking himself in the library, so maybe she should trust his judgement.

"Okay," she says, "sure, if you think so." She chews her lip, thoughtfully, and kicks the heels of her boots against the stone paving of the courtyard. "Are you completely sure it's a good idea for him to know? Won't it be just another thing for him to worry about?"

"Better than going in blind," Sam says.

 _Yeah,_ Jo thinks. _Sure._

Except: if there were a thousand-year-old prophecy predicting her death, she'd probably prefer to go right on not knowing. It's not as though she could change it, if it were true—that's what _prophecy_ is all about, the last time she checked—and knowing would only make her antsy and paranoid and morbid, regardless of the story's validity.

She tells Sam so, at which he only shakes his head and says, "I'd wanna know. I bet Dean would, too, and Cas. Cas could handle it."

"And if it's not right?" Jo crosses her arms. Well-educated or not, she still thinks Sam's being thick-headed, on this. "Sam, I know you don't fight, so you don't get this, but—fighting a battle when you're sure you're gonna die? A lot worse than fighting one where you think there's a chance you'll live."

Sam's eyebrows knit together, and he thrusts his hands into the pockets of his robe. "Why would it make a difference?"

"Because," Jo says, quite patiently, she feels, "when you think you're going to die, you get careless. If you're fighting to live, you fight with all you've got, just so you can stay alive and make it out the other side."

"But maybe he can avoid it," Sam argues, then. "Maybe if he knows—"

"I thought," Jo says, "the point of prophecy was that it happens. Isn't that what history's shown?"

"Um," Sam says, shifting uncomfortably. "Sort of?"

"And aren't there all the stories," Jo says, "where trying to avoid the prophecy just made it come to pass? I think it's better if he doesn't know. That way, if the prophecy's just a heap of horseshit, he'll be fine anyway, and be able to function—and if it's real, he'll still be able to function, without getting caught up in fear of it."

Sam watches her thoughtfully for a minute, and finally says, "I guess you do know better, for someone that does battle. Still, it seems—unfair, not to tell him."

"If it becomes apparent that he needs to know," Jo decides, "we can tell him. Otherwise, leave it alone."

"Okay," Sam acquiesces with a sigh. He jumps back when Jo draws her sword. "Whoa."

"Get outta my courtyard," she shoos, and heads back to the practice dummy, swinging the sword experimentally with one hand.

"You sound like Ellen," Sam whines, and hurries out when she swings harmlessly in his direction with a "Sorry, sorry!"

She needs to unwind before the feast, Jo thinks, as she raises her sword to begin her forms anew, or one of the nobles invited is going to end up without a head.

* * *

Last-minute preparations for the feast take over the palace as the day wears on and the shadows grow longer. The kitchens have already been working overtime for days, readying to feed dozens and making food suitable for royalty; but at the palace there's always more to do, and never enough hours in a day.

Dean walks back down from the kennels—Impala, contented and worn out by the vigorous flight, is dozing in hers—and is passed by a dozen servants carrying tapestries and baskets and table-linens and trays. It's probably a sign of how busy they are that no one tries to stop him now, either.

He's glad for the lack of interruptions, at any rate, and his thoughts turn to finally bathing and washing away weeks worth of riding. (He's scrubbed in creeks and rivers along the way, of course, but nothing really compares to the hot water that originates in the springs under the palace.)

Cas would probably appreciate the chance to get clean before the feast, too, he thinks, and then very emphatically _doesn't_ think about how Cas would look relaxed in one of the stone baths, head tilted back and wings stretched out over the sides—

Yeah. He _doesn't._

He's still not thinking about it when he turns a corner and very nearly slams into Balthazar, who's headed in the other direction, those damn robes swirling about his feet.

"Fuck!" Dean says, and weaves out of the way, even as Balthazar lurches backwards. Dean feels vaguely satisfied that he managed to ruffle the guy, even for a second.

He can't put his finger on what about the guy makes him so uncomfortable, but he thinks it has something to do with the way he's constantly at Cas's side, like he's his personal hand-servant rather than his right hand man in times of war.

"Watch where you're going, boy-king," Balthazar says, about as antagonistically as Dean feels, and it takes all of Dean's self-control not to snap back with something profane.

"You, too," is all he grunts, instead, and then asks, "how's Cas?"

"Cassie," Balthazar says, pronouncing the name in way that makes Dean twitch with annoyance, "is taking the chance to prepare for meeting your lords. Who, he tells me, according to you, haven't a shred of basic decency."

"Sounds about right," Dean says, and then he's too angry at the treatment the ravens have received to be irritated with Balthazar. "Look, I'm sorry for how my people have acted, so far. If there was anything I could do to have made it better—"

"—you would have," Balthazar finishes, and sighs. The raven gives him a tired look. "I know. Cassie knows, too, so you needn't worry your pretty little head about it, either." His wings flex a little at his back—they're sleeker than Castiel's, shaped more like a magpie's than a raven's. "Which isn't to say," he goes on, casually, "that I won't tear said pretty head clean off should you fail to back him up at tonight's shindig."

"Uh," Dean says, and suddenly remembers that Balthazar, like Castiel, is a powerful mage, and could probably reduce him to a stain on the ground. And would follow through on such a threat, if the way he's acted around Castiel thus far has been any indication. "Got it."

"Good.” Balthazar smiles at him, scimitar-sharp, before turning and continuing on his way.

Dean bites down anything he might've yelled after him, and gets back to the business of getting himself to the springs for a bath.

* * *

By the time it's dark most of the lords and nobles that aim to attend have arrived, and Sam's been roped into his younger-son duties of 'greeter'.

He shakes an interminable number of hands as he welcomes the parties that come striding through the door, giving perfunctory speeches that all sound more or less the same but have the right names slotted in. (Sometimes Sam is grateful that he has an exceptional auditory memory. Unlike Dean, who can be told the same thing three times over and still forget what it was that was said.)

Most of the great lords are unsurprisingly unable to attend, though the heads of many of the lesser houses sworn to them do. Some send delegates in their stead: Meg sends a blonde woman with a dangerous smile in her place, and Ruby sends a prim older man in dark garb.

The man doesn’t give his name when he shakes his hand, and Sam has just enough time to process the way people seem to walk around him when he moves, parting without prompting or even noticing he’s there. Sam’s whole hand feels drained of warmth as the man releases it.

He’s glad when the man disappears inside.

When he hears yet another fanfare, though, and sees the violet banner of the Harvelle house blowing in the wind on the far side of the courtyard, he grins; at least they'll have one friendly face here, and a very strong one at that.

"Ellen!" He waves (rather informally) as her honor guard parts to allow her to stride through.

Ellen—easily as tall as Dean, streaks of gray visible in her pale hair and clothed in the style of a dragonrider, but more ornate—cuts an impressive figure, walking across the courtyard, a violet cloak decorated with the Harvelle house sigil snapping behind her. Sam can only feel nastily pleased when the other nobles gravitating towards the entryway watch her pass with envy, and allows her to envelop him in a hug as she steps close, saying only, "It's good to see you in one piece, boy. How's my daughter?"

"You, too, Ellen," he says. "She's well. She's been avoiding the crowd down in the practice yards, but she's with Dean now." Probably. Or looking for Dean, anyway: Dean has a propensity for hiding somewhere out of the way before events like these, by way of hating social occasions.

Sam considers this to be something of a failing in a monarch, but, well.

It's still infinitely better than having John on the throne.

And not as good as having mom.

He tramps down the thought and gives a more formal—if rather more heartfelt than the last few—speech to Ellen and her entourage (two advisors, half a dozen guards, a lesser lord sworn to her service) before ushering them inside. Ellen pauses to add, "Just a few more after us, Sam," and pat his shoulder before heading in.

The next group he sees coming across the courtyard leaves a rather more sour taste in his mouth, because at the front walks Adam. He's almost ghostly, decked in gray and white, the light hooded cloak on his shoulders tasseled lavishly with silver and his face twisted into the usual haughty sneer.

Everything about Adam is pale, from his eyes—almost colorless—to his skin, pallid in a way that speaks of unhealth for someone born in a warm climate. Sam wonders often if he is somehow ill, but no amount of informative networks has been able to find out.

Adam clasps his hand with only "Prince Samuel," uttered aloud, faintly derisive.

"Lord Adam," Sam allows, and welcomes him to the palace as briefly as he can, because the sooner he can stop speaking to Adam, the better.

"I trust tonight will be entertaining," Adam says, as he finishes, and his tone leaves no question as to his meaning.

It actually kind of makes Sam want to do what Dean would probably do and hit him. (Well: that's not actually true. Dean wouldn't just hit him, he'd _deck_ him. Still, Sam isn't prone to violence—as Jo has pointed out, he's no fighter—but Adam almost makes him wish he was.)

"I'm sure," Sam grits out, and extends a hand through the doorway.

Adam's party passes, and Sam breathes out, looks towards who else is coming. More delegates—Gordon's right-hand woman, and Sarah's, their parties walking as far apart as they can manage along the central walkway—brown and green banners blowing opposite each other in the breeze.

The dark-skinned woman that Sarah sent—Liani, that was her name, Sam remembers now—smiles tightly at him as she shakes his hand. Sam gets the impression that her tension is owed more to Remora, Gordon's delegate.

She has a long braid with golden jewelry woven into it slung over one shoulder, a small glass bell affixed to the end, and it tings lightly when Liani steps aside to let Remora pass.

Remora greets them both with words so precisely spoken they could probably cut glass, and walks inside without further invitation. Liani lingers, brown eyes boring into Remora's back, and then looks back to Sam, who asks, "How goes it at the River Keep?"

The sigh Liani emits is long-suffering. "We are keeping the peace," she says, direct. "Lord Sarah is hard-put to keep our dear neighbors from each other's throats, but she manages."

"Lord Dean would like you to know that he greatly appreciates your efforts," Sam says. Well, he probably would, if he weren't currently doing something akin to hiding in a linen closet. "Please convey our deepest gratitude to Lord Sarah for her assistance in these difficult times."

"I shall do so," Liani says. Her smile as he passes inside is a little warmer than her first.

Sam looks back out to the courtyard—only lesser nobles heading up the path, now—and blows out a long breath.

Dean, he decides, is going to owe him forever for this.

* * *

Dean is not, actually, _hiding._ He's surveying.

That's what he tells himself, anyway, as he makes his second loop of the emptier upper floor of the palace, Jo in tow behind him, walking at a pace that discourages anyone they pass in the halls from doing more than bowing.

They're both dressed for the occasion, now. Dean is in maroon accented with gold, shirt wide-sleeved underneath a vest thick with embroidery and a brighter red sash looped around his waist (it hangs just low enough to catch irritatingly on his knee) and Jo is dressed similarly, but in darker shades. Their swords are in matching decorative sheaths.

Dean kind of wants to crawl out of his skin, right now, and when he steps out onto a high walkway running from one part of palace to another and peers down at the courtyard, the feeling just intensifies.

"This isn't gonna work," he says again, and gives Jo an imploring look, like she can fix all of this. Harvelles are known for their abilities in that department, after all.

"Not if you don't calm down, it isn't," she points out, and grabs Dean by the shoulders to hold him still when he tries to walk off again. " _Stop._ "

"I hate these things," Dean says. "Also, I hate _Adam._ Of all the lords to show up, why'd it have to be him?" All his plans for tonight are a jumble in his head, and he's thrumming with energy even when Jo stills him.

"Because the universe hates you," she tells him, unsympathetic. "Dean, this is your _duty,_ just like my duty is to stand there and look menacing right until someone draws a sword in your presence, and then it's my job to run 'em through."

"I've had this speech," Dean says, acerbically. "From dad, I think. Like, about a million fucking times."

" _Dean._ " Jo scowls darkly at him, her fingers biting into his shoulders. "John did a lot of stupid shit in his lifetime, but his lectures regarding your position weren't part of it."

And that means a lot, Dean thinks, coming from her.

John got Jo's father killed in the last war, by sheer callousness. No one hates John more than Joanna Beth, with the possible exception of Ellen, and even then, it's questionable.

It's a marvel they're friends at all, really, with a history like that.

"Dean? Are you listenin' to me?" she prods.

"Yeah, I'm listenin'," he says. "I know it's my duty. I know."

" _Good,_ " Jo says. "Now go do it, and make damn well sure we didn't drag these poor people from the north for nothin'. They're not here to be humiliated, and it's your job to keep Adam's shit—and everyone else's—under control."

"Right," Dean says. Everything on him, as always. His job to keep a horde of snooty nobles in check, just like it's his job to keep two kingdoms from being annihilated by the threat in the East.

Fuck being king.

Jo catches his gaze when he swallows, mouth dry. She still hasn't let go of his shoulders. "What?" he manages.

"It's your job," she repeats, "but you don't have to do it alone. I'm going to be by your side for the rest of your life, regardless of whether it's as we are now or as my mother intends to make us." The reminder of their forced betrothal makes Dean grimace, an expression Jo echoes. "What do you need me to do?" Jo asks.

"What you always do," he tells her, and tries for a crooked sort of grin. "Stand there and look menacing. Particularly in Adam's direction. Remind them all that we _are_ the Dragonlords, not just another noble family."

Jo lets him go, now, and gives him an appraising look. "Is that what you're going with, tonight? A show of force? What have we to flaunt, just now?"

Dean sighs, pulls together his thoughts. It's time he told her exactly how he wants this to go: it's too late for her to back out and just soon enough for him to have time to explain.

"The power of alliance and the latest reports we've received from the East." Dean has spent the last few hours pouring over dozens missives brought by raven, all with ill tidings of the demons' marshaling forces. "The enemy numbers are growing, and we are going to make it exceptionally clear to all those that attend to night just how real the threat is."

"Adam's going to try to downplay it," Jo says, thoughtfully. "We know he doesn't think that this is really the next true invasion."

"Which is why," Dean says, "before we even get to speaking of the alliance with the Ravenlords, we're going to have to convince him, and all the others. We will announce all we've learned, including the loss of our easternmost forts," and hadn't that been a horrifying missive to read—the numbers of the dead are fresh in his mind, two thousand men, women and children lost, "and then we'll offer him the chance to send his own men to ascertain the gravity of the situation."

Jo goes still, finally catching his drift. "You want me to talk about the incursion I assisted in fighting off when I separated from you on the way north. The one that wiped out Qus."

"Yes," Dean says. "Tell them what happened. Tell them _everything_ , even the parts you don't want to even think about."

Jo's jaw is set, now, her look at him hard. "That is hardly the sort of tale that one tells at a feast."

Dean agrees, of course. She's told him—not everything, but parts, and it isn't. It isn't a tale anyone wants to hear under any circumstances, and it's utterly inappropriate for a feast of nobles.

"That's why I'm having you tell it," he says. "We're going to shock them, and then we're going to remind them who we are, and then—" he gestures vaguely in towards the palace, towards where Cas must be, "—we introduce to them our ostensible saviors, the mages that can burn demons right out of the bodies they steal."

Jo still doesn't look happy. He doesn't expect her to be. This isn't a good thing to ask, nor a kind one. He breathes relief when she says, "Okay."

"You can do this, right?" he asks. Too late to be having doubts, but he can't keep the question in, anyway.

"Oh, I can," she says, coolly. "The question is whether everyone else can, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and shifts from one foot to the other. Looks away. He has to make this work: has to.

"Lead on, my liege," Jo says, and Dean nods, turns towards the stairs.

He can't hide from tonight forever, after all.

* * *

Balthazar watches, rapt, as Castiel sweeps out of his chambers clad in the full regalia of the Ravenlord: robes and tabard and cloak, and all the jewelry befitting his station, the heat of the south be _damned._

When he wants to, Castiel can carry himself like a threat embodied, every inch the predatory spirit-mage with the power to burn the soul right out of any of the humans around him.

All that capacity for destruction, Balthazar thinks, secretly delighted by the sight, encased in a small humanoid form with ruffled wings and messy hair. Enough to make anyone weak in the knees.

Castiel gives him a sharp look, like maybe he knows that Balthazar's mind isn't where it should be, and rumbles, "You are ready?"

"Always," Balthazar says, cheekily, and resists the urge to slide his arm around Castiel's elbow like he's some sort of accompaniment. Castiel probably wouldn't approve, and neither would the humans, though only the former’s opinion matters to him. "The human king told you how he plans to proceed?"

"Yes." Castiel looks pensive, standing in there in the hallway before heading down to feast hall. "He intends to shock his noblemen into taking the threat seriously, and then present us as—the answer to their insufficient forces in its face."

"Better than I expected from him," Balthazar observes. He's mildly surprised the human king is even capable of that much planning.

"You continue to underestimate him," Castiel reproaches.

"Only because I'm used to higher standards of leadership, Cassie." Balthazar smirks when Castiel shakes his head, earrings jangling against each other, and starts down the hallway.

"You will show respect while in the presence of their political leaders," he says, as Balthazar makes to follow. "For him, and all of them, if you must. We will not give them more reason to treat us like lesser beings."

"No," Balthazar says, "of course not." It makes him twitch uncomfortably, willingly taking all this without being just as horrible back, and he's sure it does for Castiel, too. Unassuming as Castiel may sometimes seem, he does hold dominance over twelve clan leaders, every mage in their domain, and a realm large as the human lands.

Not having his position respected probably grates for him as much as it would for the human king. Castiel is just far better at hiding it.

Castiel stops at the top of the stairs, just for a moment, and looks back at him. After a few seconds of silent staring, he says, abruptly, "I am glad to have taken you with me. I need Rachel here, very much, but—I have needed you, as well. Thank you."

"Of course, Cassie," Balthazar says, taken aback. "Anything I can do to serve."

"You have always been the most loyal." Castiel's hand is gentle against his, then, just a brush. "How you have served has been of great reflection upon your good character."

Balthazar almost laughs. It's so formal, so hard-edged, but he knows Castiel well enough to hear what he's really saying, what he really means. To lighten the mood, he says: "I only chose to follow you because you were the prettiest."

Castiel actually snorts (very unattractively. Balthazar likes the sound, anyway), and turns away to start down the stairs. "Come along, Balthazar."

Balthazar follows like the loyal servant he is, mouth quirked up at the edge in a smile.

* * *

The feast is noisy, and lavish, and uncomfortable. Half the nobles are too drunk by the time the second course is served—and damn if Dean doesn't want to join them, just now, but the servants are insistently pouring only fruit juice into his goblet, probably at Sam or Jo's behest—and the other half are haughty and unpleasant. Those that talk to the ravens sneer and act as though they're being faced with animals or children; those that don't ignore them icily.

Dean thinks he can actually see the muscles in Castiel's jaw tensing as the feast wears on, from where he's sitting, metres away at the head of the table. Castiel's words are still soft-spoken, though, diplomatic and controlled.

Dean's honestly impressed. He himself would've probably leapt across the table brandishing a fork the first time Remora implied that Castiel and his entourage might be too wild and weak-minded to not eat with their hands.

If Remora’s insults can be called subtle, then Adam’s are downright crude. Every other word out of his mouth derides the ravens' intelligence, the seriousness of the coming war. White fingers curled around his goblet, he murmurs things like "It'll be over by Yuletide, I am certain," and "but your people are not that advanced, surely."

Dean doesn't miss Castiel's hand tightening around his silverware at that, but it's only because he's looking for it. Balthazar, he notes, is equally aware of the chieftain's tension; he thinks he sees him slip a hand under the table to squeeze Castiel's, and for once Dean doesn't mind that it's that bastard doing it, because if it helps Castiel get through this, he'll take it.

Maybe Dean spends a little too much time watching Castiel, really—he almost smiles when Castiel surreptitiously wrinkles his nose at the wine poured into his goblet and has it plucked out of his fingers by a rather more interested Balthazar, who downs it all in one go.

At least one of them is getting a little help from alcohol at this disaster.

Sam, seated to Dean's right, kicks him in the ankle and hisses, "Dean, pay attention," which makes Dean snap back to looking at Liani, who's been saying something for the past minute.

"I'm sorry," he says, and smiles apologetically, all charm. Liani repeats herself—asking whether or not his holdings in the East require more defensive forces, and he replies carefully that they may in the future, but are currently managing with their own riders.

Seeming weak here—letting someone like Adam hear that their forces are starting to be stretched thin by the war—could mean their downfall. Dean has no intention of letting someone take advantage of the coming invasion by staging a coup.

The third course arrives, wafting with wonderful intermingling smells—the palace kitchens, at least, have not discriminated amongst who is attending, and the food tastes spectacular—and Dean glances towards Jo, sitting one chair down from him to Sam's right.

She raises his eyebrows at him, expectantly, mouth pulled into a tight little frown. _Now?_

 _Soon,_ Dean mouths at her. She nods and sighs.

The lords talk. Castiel continues to deflect insulting insinuations with minimalistic bland politeness, backed up slightly by Ellen's—she is seated at the other end of the table, in the place that is rightfully hers as second most powerful house—sharp bite and reasonable words.

Dean waits until everyone's more interested in each other than the food, though the ravens have been eating rather little from the start, picking carefully around the meat on their plates and ignoring the disdain radiating from the other side of the table with varying degrees of success.

"Milords," he says, when the noise level has risen and the plates pushed away, and feathers on the raven side of the table are starting to rise in greater and greater unconfined anger. "Milords, I feel it is time for us to discuss the reason we are here."

"We are here," Adam says, smoothly, like it's his palace and not Dean's, "to mark the arrival of the . . . foreign delegation." His mouth curls around the words, turning them into something unpleasant.

"We are here," Dean says it rather more forcibly, irritation twanging through him, "to speak of the invasion from the east, and Our hope that we will be able to stop it with the assistance of potential new allies in the north." Everyone around the table, he is certain, hears the capital of the royal 'Our'.

"The 'invasion from the east' is nothing but a minor incursion." Adam flicks his fingers into the air, as though he's waving the very idea of it off.

"Don't be a fool, Adam," Ellen snaps, because Ellen always says it as it is. Dean smiles at her even as he fantasizes about rising from the table and strangling Adam, and goes on to say

"I understand that some of those gathered here believe so, yes. I bring you first-hand testimony that says otherwise."

"Why should we believe this 'invasion' to be any different from the usual slew of raids along our border?" This comes from an elderly woman at the far end of the table that Dean can't put a name to; he'd have to ask Sam. She looks just as skeptical as Adam. "This has been going on for years. It's hardly new."

"Because," Dean says, "as I have said, one of our own has been to the eastern borders. She has witnessed what is happening with her own eyes, and it is no simple _raiding,_ milord."

And then he looks to Jo, in a way that makes all other heads turn towards her, too; and she takes a breath, and speaks.

"When my liege and his party rode north two months ago," she begins, "we received a missive, some days north of the capitol, that there had been an attack on Qus. Other assistance not being forthcoming, I was dispatched with a portion of the guard that rode with us.

"It took us two days of hard riding to reach Qus. When we made it to the town's edge, what we found was not the minor damage of a raiding party." Jo glances towards Dean, then— _are you sure about this?_ —and, at his nod, goes on, "We found every man, woman and child in the village slaughtered, piled in the center on an altar like none we'd ever seen."

Everyone at the table is silent, human and raven alike. All eyes are focused unwaveringly on Jo—when Dean glances around at the faces he finds some contorted in horror, a few in disbelief, most blankly numb with the words. Jo's voice carries in the hall, right down to the lower tables, uninterrupted. "We checked all the houses and the streets—we intended to bury the bodies, take them away from whatever sick ritual had transpired there.

"They rose as though alive when we touched the altar, their wounds still gaping, flesh necrotic, and attacked us. One of my best men fell immediately to a child with a half-slit throat that tore through his chest and crushed his heart. Another to a had-been farmhand that smiled and drove a farm implement through him as he jerked back.

"Their eyes were black. They were demons—not as we have seen before, semi-corporeal and seeking only bloodshed, but demons that took hosts. Worse, they took some of us before they killed us—flooded into their bodies and used them to murder their brethren."

"You did not bring dragons?" A question in a faintly quivering tone, from the other end of the table.

"A full host of dragonriders arrived shortly after we did, summoned by us from the outpost we passed on the way. They were successful in halting our destruction, though the walking corpses fought until there was nothing left of them at all—" Jo stops for a moment, takes a swig from her goblet, for her voice is running dry, "—but they fell when the demons' reinforcements arrived."

" _Reinforcements._ " Adam is staring at her from around the man and woman that separate them, his fingers still tightly wound around his goblet, perfect nails resting against the rim. "What sort of—?"

"They had flying beasts," Jo answers, face expressionless in the way it is when she fights, not letting anything through. "Like dragons but not dragons—they moved wrong, and their wings worked differently, and there were too many spikes and claws—" she breaks off, takes another swig of her wine.

Silence reigns, the quiet slosh of the wine Jo drains from her goblet the only sound at all.

"They killed our dragons. They nearly killed us. I think, at the last, the only reason we escaped and made it to the rendezvous with the king was because they allowed it."

"That is why you sent out so many dragons to defend the eastern towns?" Adam asks, sharply. "You and Ellen both? We had thought it an overprotective move, and now you tell us you have been sending your men and their dragons to their deaths?"

"As we have been telling you," Dean speaks, now, "the threat is very real. It’s you who has neglected to take it seriously. And I hope very much that it will now become apparent why an alliance with the Ravenlords—who have in their hands magic the likes of which the South has not seen in thousands of years—would be of great use to us."

The speed with which the lords at the table can go from derision to suspicious interest—self-interest, Dean thinks, angrily—is uncanny. A short, dark-skinned lord with mousy hair scoots himself forward and inquires, "And what would they get in return? How great of assistance could they possibly offer us if they need it themselves?"

Dean doesn't realize how little Castiel has spoken within the last hour until Castiel does, gravelly. "My people lack numbers, and we have no strongholds to flee to in time of war. They require protection—we have already experienced attacks similar to the ones described by Joanna—and we cannot face armies alone, neither on land nor in the air. Nevertheless, we have considerable powers at our disposal, which we would offer to your war effort."

"How considerable?" the little lord insists. "Sounds like you need us a lot more than we need you."

"We would be willing to give you a demonstration come the morning," Castiel says. He inclines his head towards the lord. "In the meanwhile, suffice it to say that we have managed to hold our own in many armed conflicts, and our magic has great—offensive capabilities."

"I'd take him at his word," Dean suggests. "I've seen them fight, and it's impressive."

"We would be allying ourselves with _beasts!_ " a voice—Dean can't tell from who—hisses, and Castiel is frozen again, demeanor cool in a way that suggests raging fire inside.

"I believe," Castiel says, after a moment, each word tightly controlled, "that should we ally ourselves, we would have a far greater chance of withstanding the coming invasion. As I understand it, an exorbitant number of human lives hang in the balance."

As silence comes clinging again to the table, Ellen speaks up at her end, loud enough so that all of the hall can hear. "Let it be known that House Harvelle is in full support of House Winchester in allying with the Ravenlords of the North."

To Dean's left, Liani says, definitively, "House Blake concurs."

The little lord that questioned Castiel before makes a noise. "House Harnhall will convene its inner council on the matter. We will—consider this proposal, given the circumstances."

A dozen more cautious semi-agreements ring out around the table. It's the best Dean feels he can expect, under the circumstances: though he'd known to expect the full support of the houses of Harvelle and Blake, he'd remained uncertain as to whether Jo's tales from the field would have the desired effect. His heart drums in his chest with not-quite relief.

He feels a like he's just over the peak of an adrenaline high. He's probably going to crash, bad, after the feast is over.

It seems as though his shock tactics worked, at any rate, for those nobles that don't suggest agreement are mostly absconding to further internal discussion, or are quietly negative, not vocally; soon only Adam is left pensive, nails clicking gently against the rim of his goblet as he appears to consider.

When the chatter quiets again he is the center of attention, a powerful lord that hasn't voiced an opinion: and the greatest threat to Dean, in the room. It's like an ongoing fight for the position of alpha male, blown up in magnitude to encompass an entire nation and showcased in a microcosm here.

Adam says, "House Milligan abstains until a better judgement of—potential allies—can be made." A calculating gaze is leveled at Castiel, who stares right back, unfazed. "We are unconvinced of the utility of joining forces. These ravens will have to prove themselves before we take any such action."

Castiel says, stiffly, "Very well." Dean has no doubt he'll impress them sufficiently.

And then there's a noise—silverware clattering against glass, the dull thunk of a goblet tipping over against the wood. At first Dean thinks Adam's snapped, or one of the ravens, and someone's hit the table in anger; and then—

—and then he sees Balthazar slumping sideways out of his chair, tipping over to the floor with a low moan as Castiel twists towards him with eyes wide, and knows the sound for what it is, the realization settling in his stomach like lead.

Murder, cold, where the warmth of an alliance should have been.


End file.
